Wagosh Lake.
Sounds familiar doesn’t it? You know it’s one of the thousands up North and situated just a couple clicks south of one of Minnesota’s best. It’s so well renowned that even the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources went the great length of putting a lake ID number on it and called it a day. There is no fish survey, nor water clarity chart, or even a water quality report…
I don’t blame them though. Heck, I didn’t even know about it until the night prior while my solo trip in the Boundary Waters. My eyes overlooked it every time I charted my +35 mile course – an easy thing to do considering it’s one of the smallest lakes. The name didn’t stick out quite as well as Gun, Chippewa, Crooked, Horse, Boot, and Fairy. Nor was it as odd as the likes of Tin Can Mike, Mudro, Papoose, and Fourtown. Even the normally reliable Google search provides little to no information.
It was brought up to me by my outfitter – with whom I was renting a special solo canoe from – after I mentioned my plan for the 2nd day of the trip was to traverse over 10 miles of paddling and portaging from Wednesday Bay on Crooked Lake. They suggested Wagosh as a lake to consider setting up camp on for the night since it serves as a staging spot for the lengthy, one mile portage that connects it to Gun Lake. Since little was known of this highly overlooked lake, I honestly would’ve rather stayed on the lakes surrounding it than take their recommendation.
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Enter Day 2 of my trip….
After a treacherous paddle into the wind across Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday Bays on Crooked Lake, I still remained steady on not settling for Wagosh. The three lakes and subsequent portages brought me to the Wagosh’s shore. I unshouldered the canoe, placed it delicately on her water, and proceeded to pack my gear in it – ensuring proper weight distribution for maneuverability and keeping conscious to maintain a low center of gravity for stability.
While arranging everything I did a little mental check with myself to make sure I could handle what’s to come beyond Wagosh. Taking a couple deep breaths, I glanced at my caveman watch: observing where the sun was in relation to the western horizon. There was plenty of time to make the mile long portage into Gun Lake. But was it worth the risk to tap out of most of my energy on the portage with the chance that all the campsites on Gun would be claimed by others? If that was the case, is it worth the risk to then paddle all of Gun and portage into the next lake (Fairy) where there is only one campsite and run into the same no vacancy issue?
The answer was no.
I now hoped that just around the point along the right shoreline of Wagosh from where I stood, the campsite nestled away in her northern bay was available. I paused for a moment to try listening for any distant conversations from potential campers in that direction. I heard nothing; it was a good sign. I then proceeded to slink into the canoe and veer around the point. My gaze was set on her northern bay. No canoes on its shore; no movement amongst the trees; still no muffled conversations – the campsite was open for business!
It was now time to do another mental check: be content about my day’s journey and embrace the unknown of Wagosh.
In no time I was paddling up to the vacant campsite. It was hard not to miss the campsite’s granite hillside of towering white pines that were catching the steady northwesterly breeze with their finely combed needles. A patch of twinflowers and bunchberries ushered me along the path up to the quaint surroundings above.
I felt at home.
After getting all situated with camp and satisfying my belly with some grub, I set out with the fly rod to see what she had to offer. About every five minutes would go by and my #6 crippled minnow would get a good smacking from a pike. Their size wasn’t significant by any means, but any fight on a fly rod is a gracious welcome. As the sun began setting, I decided throw in the towel for fishing and go to bed early; I had a better day ahead of me full of travel and, from what my outfitter told me, some incredible fishing opportunity on a bigger lake. As I closed the zippered door to my solo tent and night began to set in, I closed my eyes and dreamed about was how amazing tomorrow was going to be.
Little did I know what enchantments Wagosh had up her sleeve.
I woke up, around midnight, to the tremolo song of a loon in flight. It’s wingbeats wisped over the surrounding pines and aspen that had grown silent from a diminished wind. While transitioning into his song’s second verse, the dozen lakes that surround Wagosh erupted in a booming chorus of yodels, wails, and tremolos that easily went on for twenty minutes (THIS is the closest audio I could find, yet even this doesn’t even hold a candle).
Now I’ve witnessed and heard 25 loons grouped together singing before – it’s an incredible experience. But the haunting beauty that filled every fiber of the once calm and grossly quiet night on Wagosh was one for the ages. Awe induced chills ran through the veins and grains of all us, which left the night, believe it or not, even more quiet than it was prior. Our cores were emphatically stunned.
Maybe this is the reason why what happened two hours later occurred. In the spring and early summer, the sprightly erratic cadent song of a robin is nature’s alarm clock each morning – testifying to the old adage, “The early bird gets the worm” as grubs are some of their most favorite meals.
Anyway, for some strange reason a cardinal across the bay decided it was his time to be the hero by taking over the responsibility. Don’t get me wrong, a cardinal’s song is of unpretentious beauty, but at two o’clock in the morning even that isn’t a welcome to those of us diurnals. Either bring it like what a loon does, or sit down. Well, lo and behold, he got a piece of other’s minds… Two notes into his second rendition, Mr. Robin roosted in the pine above my tent, Blue Jay thirty yards to our left, Ole Codger Raven fifty yards to our right, and Miss Chickadee nestled next to the cardinal across the bay in unison belted out, “SHUT THE @#$^ UP!!!!!” in their own songs.
In true chagrin, he shut the @#^ up.
I, much like the rest of the woods, gave a smirk and flipped over to the other side of our beds and roosts. We waited for the real alarm clock to chime a few hours later. Mr. Robin, like clockwork, rose up forty minutes before sunrise. We didn’t hear much from the ambitious Cardinal from across the bay that morning.
What we saw, just as the sun was about to crest over the horizon was obviously something normal on Wagosh. What I witnessed, though, was foreign to me. As I kneaded out the sleep from my eyes I began prepping for the morning’s first ritual (coffee and breakfast). Meanwhile a beaver swam out from the right side of my campsite to the other shore – not a strange sight in the least bit. He was clearly living up to the idiom “eager beaver”, right?
Well, ten minutes later, I finished brewing my coffee, sat back, and looked up while taking a sip of the steaming, black elixir. He, along with his adolescent kit swam back. Their swim, however, wasn’t anything I had ever seen; it lacked a destination. Instead of the focused, pinpoint swim they normally make from shoreline to shoreline, their swim was erratic – they swam in circles and sometimes not at all. Yes, they literally would just float for minutes in the water then paddle a couple feet and then float some more. A free swim if you will.
They were carefree.
So carefree that they watched the sun slowly rise over the trees that began to dissipate the subtle fog hovering over the water. I took another sip. The loons began to tremolo again. As I continued to watch the beavers contently floating about, something came to me.
Tucked away is a small lake with a homely campsite that goes unnoticed by us travelers; we look to bigger and better waters where more opportunity awaits. Our journey lead us to this unknown staging area to rest up before we make our way to the promised land – we just have to sit tight and make do with what we have.
Such is life.
But life is more about the journey than the end, for the end sometimes leads to disappointment: our expectations may exceed the reality. Other times the end is truly an accomplishment to be proud about. Regardless of the outcome, Wagosh demonstrated that the staging areas of life can be just as rewarding as the end – if not more!
A major goal of my solo trip was to traverse a giant loop of lakes and portages in a small window of days without any assistance. I was able to attain it.
Another major goal of mine was to fly fish successfully up there. It’s a difficult art form – even more challenging while manning a canoe alone. I was able to attain it.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled to accomplish both, but they don’t hold a candle to the night and morning’s enchantments. In reality, I didn’t do anything at all except contently embrace the modest surroundings that Wagosh could offer. When I did, I experienced nature through a different lens.
It didn’t need to be a sky perfectly painted in the most vibrant colors. Nor was it a mountain that majestically transcends all others. Rather, the most beautiful, awe induced moment I’ve ever experienced erupted from the stillness of a grossly dark night: the chorus of loons.
It didn’t need to be a vivacious pair of cubs tromping and playing about with each other. Nor was it- the surefooted deer tripping over its own feet. Rather, humor (that seemed so intrinsically human), came from a gaffed wakeup call that was shunned from the various feathered that don’t flock together: the ambitious cardinal.
When we eventually all woke up from that unforgettable night, the hardest worker of the woods demonstrated not only to us, but also his nearest kin about an essential element of life that is often overlooked. It isn’t about constructing and living in the largest hut. Nor is it erecting the strongest and longest dam in the natural world. Rather, embracing contentment, wherever your feet may be, is greatest achievement of all.
As I age, I’m sure my memory will slowly fade. While I age, I’m certain my memory will hold true on key moments I’ve had in life. There is one I’ll never forget: A Night on Wagosh.
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“Not that I speak from want, for I have learned to be content in whatever circumstance. I know how to get along with humble means, and I also know how to live in prosperity; in any and every circumstance I have learned the secret of being filled and going hungry, both having abundance and suffering need. I can do all things through Him who strengthens me.” – Apostle Paul